“Do you have anyone who will be able to substantiate your story?” Frankie interrupted.

The gamekeeper looked at her in surprise. “Aye. The Inverness bobbies, of course, hen.” He shook his head in wonder at having to answer a woman’s question.

“And the Inverness police were with you every day last week?” She persevered, bottling her frustration for the moment.

“Pretty much. They were with me from first thing Monday, all day. Then they came back on the Tuesday with some stuck-up RSPB types. Know what gets me about the RSPB? They get all hot and bothered about some bloody bird that kills other birds for a living, and then don’t give a toss about the thousands of pheasants and grouse people like us make sure get shot every year. They’re birds as well.”

“Just answer the question.” Corstorphine interrupted his soliloquy.

He received a sullen stare for his interruption. “On the Wednesday I was on the estate all day, ask my boss. The Thursday I was showing some rich American the best places to stalk deer and had a few drinks at his expense in the Stag Hotel where he was staying. The Friday I had to go into Inverness to see the legal aid – total waste of bloody time, that was.” He looked at them both with open hostility. “What’s the bloody point of the law if the sheriff is as bent as his gamekeeper?”

“You’re familiar with the concept of slander?” Corstorphine asked.

“Aye. And he’s another one that has it coming.”

“How do you mean?” Frankie rejoined the questioning.

The gamekeeper adopted the same surprised expression he had when she spoke previously, quickly looking towards Corstorphine for confirmation that he was expected to answer. “You don’t know the half of it, do you?” He said this with apparent wonder. “Those two have been hand-in-glove for bloody years. You ever wondered why Oscar never got prosecuted, not once?” He sniggered, a sound Frankie could picture him making all the way through school. “You two should take up comedy, bloody class.”

“If you have any information that may lead to whoever was responsible for this death, you’d be well advised to tell us now.” Corstorphine spoke quietly, allowing the full import of what he was saying to percolate into the gamekeeper’s consciousness.

John Ackerman sat back in his chair and regarded them with a smug expression. “Think I’m going to help you with your job when you’ve just lost me mine? Think again.”

They let him go after checking his story with the Inverness police who confirmed with Corstorphine that they’d spent two days with the gamekeeper the previous week. The Procurator Fiscal had wanted more evidence to tie him to the poisoning, but it hadn’t mattered in the end. The sheriff had come down hard on him, a big fine and community service – there would have been custodial for a second offence – and he lost his job, so a good result as far as they were concerned. His employer, a financier from London, confirmed Ackerman had been with him the previous Wednesday and that the American visitor had been walking the hills with him on Thursday. Corstorphine couldn’t see how the gamekeeper would have had the time to set such an elaborate trap for Oscar, much less have the IQ to do so. He did have the motive, however.